


A Soul Rendered Asunder

by SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Loathing, Is he still a bard, Loss of Faith, Loss of Musical Prowess, Loss of Trust, M/M, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Unrequited Friendship, Unrequited Love, What is a bard who cannot sing or tell stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22786408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight/pseuds/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight
Summary: Basically Jaskier wilting and withering away after Rare Species. NOT a Fix-it-fic.Jaskier spills his guts to a young noble woman.Then in a letter to Geralt.Please read the tags before reading.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 125





	1. I can't forgive myself. But,

**Author's Note:**

> I'm deflecting because that's the beauty of art. I don't have any cookies, but please share in the dark side with me.

It’s been three months. Three months since his heart was torn out of his chest, thrown on the ground, stomped upon, shattered into fractals and splinters and thrown to the wind like ashes from a fire, like piss from a pot, on that mountain top. He can’t play any more. He tries and tries and tries to write anything. To compose lyrics, poems, prose and ballads, nothing comes. He tries to form a song, he whistles without melody, sings off tune, he plays his lute in dissonance. Of the other instruments he’s learned he can only look at them, let alone fathom to play them. The only coin he has left is that from gambling on gwent. He doesn’t play. He can't, he has tried but he gets in front of that crowd and he freezes. Not frightened, not afraid, but unable to play that which he had been able to before. He flat out refuses to play anything about Geralt but even playing Fishmonger or Merry Maids of Nilfgaard he can’t do well. 

Now, he’s waiting in a grand ballroom at a lord's manor and he’s trying so hard to figure out how to politely decline the request for him to play at tomorrow's events; a coming of age party. He wants to play, he really does. He could definitely use the coin. A nice bath and bed tonight, maybe even the ability to get the shadows off his face, out from under his eyes. He stares at his lute, even if he manages to play tomorrow, the calluses on his fingers are almost completely gone and it will physically hurt to play. He wonders if that would be good, pain seems to be all he can feel lately. So much so that he seeks it out, because it’s better than the numbness and bitterness that wells up inside him. It doesn’t matter if its color is purple and blue, brown, black, and yellow, or if it’s red.

“Hello?” It’s a quiet voice, a peaceful voice. Kind, he thinks, very kind. 

“Hello.” He forces himself to smile, the girl, maybe sixteen looks at him with pity.  
She’s pretty, freckle faced, and rather well endowed. Her hair is gold and her eyes are a deep and knowing green. 

“I’m sorry, I noticed you staring at your lute. Are you the bard, Jaskier?, that my father wishes to higher?” He laughs a little bitterly. 

“Yes.” 

“You do not seem inclined to accept his offer. Why?” 

Her brows pinch together but her voice is still gentle and her tone holds only curiosity, and he is bubbling inside, boiling. He has wanted to speak about it to anyone, but no one would listen, not while sober, not while drunk and suddenly he can’t hold his tongue. Everything he’s been feeling is right there in his mouth. He opens his mouth and closes it. He shouldn’t, shouldn’t be honest with her. He should say she is correct and that his business is his own. He should leave as soon as he has. He should go with an apology and bow. 

He doesn’t. He looks at her wide curious eyes and his tongue moves of its own accord. 

“ I can’t play. Not anymore.” He looks at the ground. “ I’ve lost my muse and my reason. A part of my soul.”

“Dear bard, what do you mean? Please, tell me. You seem so troubled.” 

She puts a hand on his arm, and her touch is so, so gentle, and the first touch that hasn’t come from a drunk man in a dirty alley outside a seedy bar. The first touch that won't leave him with bruises when he wakes up in the morning; won't leave him retching from disgust at what he has done and let be done to him. He leans into it, desperate. She cocks her head at him, worry written on her face. 

“Walk with me.” She takes his hand and leads him into the garden. The sun is shining, and it's rather beautiful, really, and in another time he might enjoy it. The sun is warm on his skin, still he feels cold, as he follows beside her. Flowers of every color and type line the walkways. They walk in silence and he notices with some morbid amusement the only flowers that aren't flourishing are the little yellow blossoms near the pond. Buttercups. And ironically, there is not a single dandelion in sight. They continue on, walking around the pond. She doesn’t push but her mere presence asks him to tell, to pour out his heart. It starts a whisper.

“I’ve never been wanted...I-I’ve always been sent away, so it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does now to have been sent away… again. To be forgotten, discarded... neglected. I thought maybe it would be different. I tried not to get attached. I really,” a labored breath, “really did, but he let me stay. Stay for years. Twenty two years. I traveled with him for more of my life than not. I had finally settled in. Accepted that maybe… I allowed myself to think I was wanted, even if I was never called a friend.” 

He swallows tightly, exhales a shaky breath and continues a little bolder now that his voice is in use.

“Now, I find that I can’t turn my pain into anything. How could I? How can I when everything I have loved for the last two decades has been ripped from me. When my soul has been torn asunder, plundered, stomped upon, stretched, and battered. My soul, the essence of my being has been burned and the ashes scattered to the wind, and the remnants of my heart wrapped in thorns and thrust back into my chest without my permission.” 

There are tears in his eyes now, because this hurts. It hurts so much more than ignoring it, pretending things were getting better. He breathes harshly. He looks to the sky and tries to stop the tears. He doesn't notice that they’re sitting now beneath an apple tree in bloom. 

“ How can I… How can I continue as I have when the one I love, loved, the one I called home and trusted has sent me away? Has tortured me slowly all these years? Torments me still in my dreams, and can’t even find me to apologize. I am a storyteller and a musician and there is nothing left in my soul which wishes to speak. I once sung of lore and myth, of war and peace, of home and hearth, of trust and loyalty, of love and lust. Now, all of those have a face, a face that makes me, hates me, blames me for all life’s troubles.”

His voice is breaking, and he’s a line away from sobbing. He wipes uselessly at his face with his sleeve. 

“Forgive me my lady, I am truly sorry for this uhm...” He clears his throat. “All I mean to say is I cannot play. I wish you a wonderful party, and better luck at this life.” He stands and bows, placing a kiss to her hand. He turns to go, not sure where yet, simply away. Away from his problems, his voice, his thoughts. Wherever, with whomever, that might be.

“Please tell your father I am sorry, but there are other, better poets than I, that could sing for you tomorrow.” 

If he had sung, he might have noticed a man in the shadows, a silver pendant at his chest.


	2. I forgive you, my love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't not finish what I started. It wouldn't get out of my head. UGH. So Here. Please suffer with me.

That night, Jaskier tried and tried and succeeded at playing. He played until his fingers bled. It was terrible music, as bad as when he first learned to play. He smiled for a moment. Only a moment, a broken kind of smile, twisted and cruel. Most of the inns patrons were at the lord manor. He sighed and looked out his window. He had nothing left save to put up a brave face and pretend that everything was okay. He leaned against the Window ledge, his head making a soft thud. The might is cool and dark. He is so so tired. It’s bone deep, and makes his muscles ache. He oversleeps or doesn’t sleep at all. His clothes don’t fit, he doesn’t have an appetite, and when he does he doesn't have the coin. The coin he does have is spent on alcohol and tonight something new. He knows that he shouldn’t. He knows it deep deep down, but he pushes it further away. The man said it would help him sleep. And sleep is what he wants, it’s what he needs. He muses a moment that sleep is a breathing death from which one can wake. The problem though, is that he doesn’t want to wake. He wants to remain in his dreams where he is wanted completely, for everything he is and everything he stands for. This need has been in his heart as long as he can remember but now, now it’s all he can think of. Others would say it is only the loss of his companion that had broken his heart. It wasn't, it was so much more. Jaskier had never been needed, or wanted, as a child he’d been sent away, as a student he’d been the laughing stock, as a bard he’d lived on moldy bread and rotten fruit, as the witcher's companion it had been better. So yes, perhaps being sent away, abandoned, broken, had rendered him immobile, heartbroken, but it wasn’t the only reason he was staring at the tiny vial of powder he’d spent his coin on. 

Three months was long enough for Geralt to find him, to apologize, to know he had made a mistake that needed fixed. That he hadn’t, hadn't so much as tried, told Jaskier's treacherous mind all he needed to know. Furthermore, if Yennefer was what Geralt wanted in a lover Jaskier would never measure up. So he slept with whomever in an attempt to feel wanted, loved. He could bed all the Lords and Ladies he wanted but he would never feel more than used, hollow and alone in the morning. 

He pours the powder into his wine and watches it dissolve. It turns a light pink before it fades into the deep ruby of the wine. It reminds him of blood. He shakes his head and looks for his notebook, somewhere in this room. It’s on the bed. He wastes no time in retrieving it and returning to the table. He pens two letters that night. One to his parents, though he thinks they don’t deserve it. The other is addressed to the white haired Witcher. He knows his parents will receive theirs. Of the other he isn’t certain what will become of it. He feels lighter now, more certain of himself. He seals and addresses the first letter. The candle by his table is burning low, he lights another. Then he seals and addresses the second. He stares at the name a moment before he places his belongings in his bag. He leaves the letters on top with a third note asking them to be sent. He lifts the wine to his lips and pauses. He lets out a shuddering breath. This is what he wants. He knows that. He knows it’s the only way to stop the world turning around him, without him. He knows it will be painless for him. He doubts his actions will cause pain for anyone else. 

He goes through the list in his head and everything is in order. 

He downs the liquid in one go. It’s sweet on his tongue and his mind is already addled as he moves towards his bed. He thinks about how sweet sin is. Of forbidden fruits and subsequent exiles. He lays back on his bed, a laugh in his throat and smile on his lips, he pulls his lute near him. Oh the songs he could now compose. His breathing slows. He closes his eyes. He listens to the noise around him. There is something heavy and pounding. A knock maybe. No, someone broke down his door. He would laugh if his body would respond. But he's comfortable, warm, and numb. 

He could cry as a familiar voice says his name with passion never before witnessed, as a hand strokes his face. But everything has gone black, and he is getting cold. 

Geralt hangs his head, hands on Jaskiers cheeks. He has failed. The Bards heart doesn’t beat, his chest doesn’t rise and fall in rhythm to his songs. Geralt stumbles back and steadies himself with a hand on the table. He swallows back bile. This is his fault he thinks. This is why he doesn't get attached. Doesn’t get involved, doesn’t want people wanting him, or needing him. He looks away from his friends, not his friend — never his friends, corpse. It’s still warm, he had witnessed his last breaths and been unable to stop his death. He lifts the goblet and sniffs, maybe there’s a cure. Maybe Yen who is with Ciri two rooms down can save him. He yells for her before his mind can catch up with him. She stops in the doorway. 

  
“Can you do anything?”  She enters the room slowly. Approaches Jaskier with caution. She feels for a pulse. She asks after the poison. Geralt doesn’t recognize it. She stands and looks at him, he sees through blurry eyes, with pity. 

“Geralt, I am not a necromancer. I cannot bring the dead back, and without a cure for that poison I cannot start his heart again, he will fall back into death’s clutches.” 

“Get out then.” He spits, so she does. 

He sinks into the chair beside the table. And stares at nothing. He doesn’t try to make out what Yen tells Ciri. He just sits until the sun comes up. Finally he pulls himself together. He has to be there for Cirilla; he can’t stare at nothing and take care of her. 

It’s then that he notices the papers, specifically his name written out in Jaskiers hand. He swallows and opens the letter with uncharacteristically shaky hands. A pressed buttercup falls from the pages. Geralt picks it up gently and places it to the side for now. 

_ I hope, with what is left of me, that this letter finds you well, Geralt.  _

_ As I write this, I know that I am not long for this world. In fact, I think I have already overstayed my welcome in it. Do not mourn my passing, for I know you did not mourn my departure. _

_I write to tell you I hope that you find your child of surprise and love them more than I have seen you love me. I hope that you and Yennefer, work out whatever happened on that mountain top. I hope you do not lock yourself away from this world and the light that it can offer. And, My Love, I hope you let that light warm you and find you as I no longer can._ __  
_  
_ __It is cold here. I am cold, and darkness calls to me. I am weak…. And I am wanting, for more than this world can now offer to me. Were I a priest, or you a man who believes in fate, I would absolve you of the guilt you feel. Others will not notice, and perhaps you yourself do not. That would be just right for you. Still, when you do, know that I do not blame you. I am long since past being angry with you, or fate. I was not made to be kept, to be loved. By you, my parents, my school mates, or even my audience. I accept that now, and welcome the embrace of the afterlife. The old poems say that all is set right there, in the fields of white, the gilded halls. No matter what the name it is known by in that place all which we are missing in this life is restored.

_ I look forward to it.  _

_ Geralt, my love, my silent, brooding golden eyed witcher, please be kind to yourself. Continue to be just. Continue to be a friend of Humanity. Teach the world as you have taught me, that respect does indeed make history.  _

_ As I write this, I realize my stories, my songs, only ever let me lie to myself. They were a clever disguise for the truth. I needed you, I wanted you. But I knew I could never have you. So I wrote your praise, and sang my love in bastard truths.  _

_ I only wish I could have given you everything you needed, everything you wanted.  _

_ I love you Geralt, I have since Posada, and I will in Death. I cannot forgive myself. But, I forgive you, my love.  _

_ Your Bard,  _

_ Jaskier _

He folds the letter up and places it in the envelope with the pressed blossom. 

They bury him deep down in a cliff top meadow. It overlooks the sea. As the sun sets Ciri asks who the man they buried is. Geralt waits a moment, and when he speaks it’s with all the gentleness he can muster.

“My one and truest friend.” 


End file.
